the Wakefield Doctrine

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

SHED

“You can call me Brother Lymphocytus.”

Sister Aclima, the former Kayla Sheperd, laughed, not without some charity, “Oh dear, must I?”

With the urban semaphore of nods of the head, leading-shoulders and, when dealing with especially active pedestrian conditions, a full compliment of stride-lengths, i.e. shorter for turns and avoidance, longer for speed and when asserting the right-of-way on lunch hour sidewalks, her new companion held the door open to the broad steps down to street level.

Her guide was average height, above average musculature; at least to the extent discernible through a pair of celebrity-branded sweat pants, a warm-up jacket associated with a well-known and eponymous local professional baseball team.

“I am here to guide you to your next point of contact,” with the necessary tilt of his head to establish eye contact with his charge, the man shed any whimsicality imparted by the surprise character of their meeting and his casual dress, “if my Greek/Latin mashup of a name is awkward, just whistle.”

“The Order is nothing if not traditional when it comes to missions into the world of the Sons of Adam; that said, my mother never let me have a dog and surely Spirit Guide is nearly as noble a role, how about I just call you…Rover?”

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

SHED

“Here’s the deal, you tell me what your plan is for this roadtrip into the Big Apple and I won’t crawl out this passenger-side window and sing the bass line to the theme from Barney Miller,” the Sophomore stared out and up through the windshield of the rental car as they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and descended into the urban canyons of New York City.

“Great, another pop culture reference that my goddamn grandfather would struggle to get,” Rosetta had a gift, rare among woman: mixing scorn with desire in a way that the sequence of the experience was up to her, not the person who is the target.

“What’s the matter now, I mean you wake me up at five am with barely a how-do-you-do and…”

“You didn’t have to come…”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“But before that, I gotta know how come  you’re driving; I’m the YChrome in this little pairing of ours and that means, unless I’m bleeding from a gunshot wound or otherwise incapacitated, I sit behind the wheel and you slouch in the passenger seat and put your feet on the dashboard, unless it’s Summer and then you stick ’em out the window.”

“Ethan, Ethan, Ethan …half the time since we’ve been together I can’t decide whether to laugh or to sigh… ”

“Don’t shed a tear for me, Miss Storm…a… tina!”

Both the congenitally angry young woman and the temporally-displaced young man’s laughter filled the car; a shared state that some say is a more accurate predictor of longevity than the more commonly cited one favored by motion pictures with an R rating.

ok… for you people more like Rosetta and less like Ethan ‘Theme to Barney Miller Show‘

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Prompt word:

SHED

A sudden memory of childhood in Kerioth caused the quietly-reserved man to tug at his robes, while awkwardly leaning against the man he’d devoted his life to, “It’s not how much they’ll hate me, I can live with that, but are you totally sure this is the only way?”

“Sorry, man, it’s got to be this way,” his friend and teacher spoke with a self-consciousness rarely observed by the other eleven men gathered for a late night meal; with the exception of the two men talking quietly, the others shared a boisterous camaraderie more common to members of the military who, for a night have shed the rigid sense of order, than men of the cloth.

“It just seems so unnecessary,” his eyes betraying a passionate devotion, his voice lowered enough to achieve the illusion of privacy with the man to his right, “I mean you’re here to get things back on track, just the simplest of lessons, to do unto others as you would; why go up against the local establishment when we could just head out on the road, preaching by the village, an epic confrontation seems so wasteful, not to mention, dangerous.”

“Sorry, Jay, you know I don’t have sole editing authority on this story; I hate to do this to you, but other than John, there’s no one in our group who has what it takes to do what I need you to do.”

From one end of the long table, in a volume that pushed aside the other conversations, came, “Yo, Iscariot, don’t go spending all our collection money; hey, Jesus, you know I’m your boy, right?”

A sad resolution pulled at the face of the guest of honor and, in a miracle visible only to his friend, he took a piece of bread, dipped it into the cup of wine, and handed it to Judas, “Like we planned, see you on the other side.”